Glorious
by Mitasova
Summary: A step-by-step account of Boromir's night after the battle of


WARNING! This story contains graphic slash, that is, male/male sexual interaction. If you think that you will not enjoy it, please, leave now. If you are under the age of 17, please, leave now.  
  
Thanks: to NancyBrooke and Eris, the great betas that they are.  
  
Disclaimer: What is Tolkien's, is Tolkien's.  
  
Glorious  
  
1.  
  
The first thing I noticed when my insides stopped threatening to spill through my nose and flow away with the river was the quiet. There was no one on this bank of the Anduin to meet us: no fires, no horses, naught save the line of brittle willows along the edge of the water and the fresh crops trodden to the ground by armies advancing and retreating. 'The current must have been faster here then I had reckoned,' I thought, pushing up on my knees. 'Or, adversely, we must have been less doughty ourselves.' Anyhow, it has apparently taken us a good stretch farther south then I'd expected. If there was light, I would probably be able to see the towers of the City, but even if the stars overhead almost completed their westward journey, the darkness surrounding us was still thick as tar.  
  
"Faramir?" I called out over my shoulder, hoping that my brother's keener eyes would distinguish some landmark that had escaped my brief survey.  
  
The answer did not come at once, preceded by shuffling, splashing noises, stark against the serenity of the night. I tried to turn my head in that direction but could not. My neck and shoulders, which had carried me over the breadth of the Anduin, refused to serve any more, and after a brief struggle I turned towards the river with my entire body. Not five paces away, Faramir was crouching at the very brink of the water, obviously preoccupied with something. 'Ah, yes. The boy.'  
  
Standing upright posed an entirely unwelcome effort, so I closed the distance between us crawling on my knees and sat on the wet gravel beside my brother's charge. Barely out of adolescence, that one was and, apparently, not even a Guard. One of the Messengers, perhaps, or some would-be soldier, the sort that always managed to slither in the camp, no matter how hard you tried to keep the scoundrels at bay. Well, if so, he had paid for his misdemeanor the fullest measure. The boy's skin was ghastly, his eyes half-lidded. White teeth gleamed faintly between his parted lips.  
  
"Faramir?" I repeated after a few heartbeats passed away, "Brother? Do leave him."  
  
But Faramir would not tear his gaze from the dead boy's face. His hand moved from the throat where he had been checking for the signs of life up to the brow and back down again over the eyes, to close them forever.  
  
"Fare thee well, brave one," he glanced briefly at the western horizon which was every shade as black as the eastern one. Then he looked me in the eye, "We need to find the others."  
  
'There are no others,' I wanted to say. 'Only sixteen of our men made it to the river, most of them wounded. We are all that remained of the finest of the Guard, all the others are half-way to Minas Tirith, faces down in the water.'  
  
I said no such thing, of course. True as it might be, Faramir didn't give up hope easily. I shook my head remembering how he had dragged this youngster whose name neither of us knew along almost from the middle of the river. 'Twas a fool's errand, but he clung to the boy as if he himself was the one in the need of rescuing. So Faramir helped the boy and I helped Faramir. And we almost, almost succeeded. It seemed a shame to despair when Faramir was near.  
  
"Let us try then," Little one, I almost added, then cut myself off. Nigh fifteen years had gone by since I last called him thus, but the endearment still rested uneasily on the tip of my tongue, ready to slip. "Do you recognize where we are?" I asked instead. Faramir lowered himself on the ground next to me and observed our surroundings in silence.  
  
"Yea," he said at length, pointing to his left, "You see that tree with one-sided crown, do you not? Well, there ought to be a small spring not so far downstream from it, if memory serves, and a creek with a watermill further down. There was a litigation in relation to it which I attended at Father's bidding, three years and a half ago. We are some ten miles from the City. Can you walk, Boromir?"  
  
"Walk?" I asked dumbly, then, seeing Faramir's impatient look, amended: "Why, of course I can, how could I not? You?"  
  
Sorrow and sharp, venomous shame washed over me even as the words were leaving my mouth. Here I was, a warlord beaten mercilessly by but a vanguard of the Enemy's forces, a High Warden whose greatest triumph had been turned to mockery in a two days' span. Sore all over but otherwise unharmed over the pile of my soldiers' bodies. What shall I read on the faces of those who lost their beloved upon returning to Minas Tirith? How shall I face my Lord and Father? How has it all come to this?  
  
I pushed the thought violently down. Faramir was talking, oblivious to my distress. "I deem yes, albeit a little slower then I would wish." He straightened his legs cautiously and winced. Worry not, Brother" he laid a hand on my forearm as I started to raise. "I think I twisted my knee when the parapet crumbled."  
  
"Let me see it." I said quickly, grateful for the distraction.  
  
He tried to pull away. "There is no need to call alarm..."  
  
"Be still."  
  
I knelt and with a resigned sigh he moved his left leg closer to me. Even through the wet fabric of his trousers the knee was burning hot and the swelling started to spread onto the calf and lower thigh. More than once Faramir took small hissing breaths and flinched under my clumsy fingers. Though many things I have done in my years, a healer I was not.  
  
The injury was not of any immediate threat, as even my crude examination revealed. Still, to place Faramir in the care of the hands more skillful then mine was a necessity.  
  
"We shall part our ways from here, Brother." I said as I peeled off my leather jerkin to wrap his knee. Faramir pursed his lips but did not protest. "You must head immediately to the camp. Mablung is in charge there - if he is alive. Walk as fast as you can, but be wary. If you meet anybody, bring them along with you." He nodded to every point I had been making. "Let them tend to you leg, count your men and wait for me. I should venture downstream for a bit, see mayhap someone was taken yonder. And before you say it" I added tying the sleeves of the garb on the backside of his knee, "I shall have a care. I did not come out of the onslaught alive to be slain by some Orc who is tired of life enough to follow us a-swimming. There. This is the best I could do."  
  
"Thank you." He gave me a brief, rueful smile as I raised stiffly to my feet. "None the less, I say: Brother, have a care. We have already lost plenty these accursed days"  
  
"Yea." I extended an arm to help him to his feet. "We shall see who is first greeted by the camp guards, cripple."  
  
2.  
  
I followed Faramir's retreating form with my eyes until he was swallowed by darkness and mist gathering among the reeds as a first breath of dawn. Misgivings besieged me: was it wise to let him wander alone and injured? These lands, though close to Minas Tirith, were not altogether safe. No land could be safe nowadays.  
  
A gust of wind pierced my damp clothes, and I shivered, wether from the cold or from foreboding, I could not decide. 'So fragile, we mortal Men are', the thought came. 'So easy to slay and tear and break, even the finest of us. The finest are easier, perhaps.' I shook my head to clear it. 'By the Seven Gates(), I must be very tired indeed. Faramir will be fine. I shall not be any use to anyone if I am to stand here, brooding.' And so, I left.  
  
The journey through the reeds, often ankle-deep in water or liquid mud, would not have been an easy one even if I was not weary, defeated and heart sore. As it was, blundering mindlessly forth, I found it harder and harder to keep my mind on track. There was a body caught in the reeds every now and then, Man and Orc alike, but not many. Waters of Anduin the Mighty run wide and only to the Sea do they relinquish what they have claimed. No one alive was around, not even a wild beast disturbed the eerie quiet that shrouded the valley. It was lulling me into a false sense of peace, as deadly as any foe's blade, and my tired senses wished naught more than to succumb to it.  
  
My parting words to my brother had been truthful: I was not afraid of stray Orcs that might dare to cross the Anduin under the White Citadel's very nose. But the Enemy, in his unending malice, had apparently invented for himself a new weapon, hitherto unheard of. The great black horsemen were its image, fierce and commanding, with voices that pierced even the most stalwart of hearts, reducing the men of Minas Tirith to wretched cowards.  
  
I recalled sickening, humiliating terror when a faceless black-clad figure atop of a tall black steed had made its appearance among the Enemy's host and raised its voice in an ear-rending wail. I recalled covering under the first convenient rock, shielding my head with my hands as if the sound alone might rip it off, unable to lift the sword, to move a limb - I, Boromir, Captain of Gondor, who has not been called the Bold out of courtesy. And then warriors of Mordor came upon us as if Morgoth's wolves themselves were biting their heels. The memory made my gut clench. What if one of those things fancied to press their success? What I was going to fight it with? I could not fathom.  
  
'Where ever those apparitions came from, though' I thought, wading my way through the next shallow, duckweed-covered creek, 'Their mounts must have been flesh and blood. I heard the clacking of hooves clearly. They can be killed.'  
  
I needed to speak with Father. If there was one man able to give advice in such a matter, it was him, the great loremaster. Perhaps those mouldering old scrolls would be able to yield some fruit for once. Faramir's opinion was also to be considered, though he had not had much time to study as of late: the gravity of our situation did not allow any of us much time for idle pondering.  
  
'Are they good swordsmen while afoot, I wonder? They did not do much of anything beside shrieking. Surely, it was enough, but still... If one knew what to expect, would their voices still hold the same power over him? While eyes are afraid, hands are busy, they say. We need to learn a way to fight this new nightmare, in case they ever decide to cross the river. They appeared reluctant to come close to the water, but I may be mistaken. It does not matter though, if they came from the womb of Mount Doom itself - I can not allow them to saddle the river. I shall not.'  
  
So caught I was in my own thoughts running in an endless loop, that the sound of reeds giving way for somebody or something took me completely by surprise. I stopped dead, tearing my sword from its sheath.  
  
There were footsteps. Motionless I stood, my senses straining; the sound was nearing from in front of me. I could not take a single step without betraying my presence, so I waited. The mist was clinging to me, twining around my body like a living thing, causing me to shiver. Then, suddenly, there was a thud and a splash, followed in rapid succession by a string of curses which, although half-whispered, were unmistakably familiar.  
  
"Declare yourself!" I cried and, noticing that I was still holding my sword at the ready, forced myself to relax. The cursing ceased as if cut by a blade, the reeds parted noisily and a man appeared not five paces in front of me, still brushing his knees of the dirt and duckweed. He was barefooted.  
  
"Captain?" he said incredulously. Then again, with more certainty: "Captain!"  
  
My heart leapt in joy as I took a step forward, sheathing my weapon. "Edros?!"  
  
In three wide paces he closed the distance between us and, with absolute disregard for subordinacy, caught me in a rib-shattering embrace. I was not about to admonish him, however: despite all the pain, loss and despair that we had suffered through lately (or because of them, mayhap), I could not help feeling pathetically grateful that at least that one, my childhood friend and second-in-command, had been spared. So I hugged him back without restraint.  
  
'You are alive!" Edros was repeating in a fervent whisper, as I pulled back. His hands never left my shoulders. "Boromir, Boromir, you are alive, Valar be praised!" Then he cut himself off, looking at me uncertainly. "Captain Faramir?.."  
  
"He is well. I sent him to the camp to tend his injury. Are you alone?"  
  
"Yes. Yes, I am. I feared that no one else survived."  
  
"You were almost right." I hesitated for a moment. "Whither did you cross the river?"  
  
Edros glanced back over his shoulder. "Not far away. I lay on the sand-bank for some time; I do not remember how long. I thought that I was the only one alive..."  
  
His hands slid from my shoulders to my upper arms, winter-cold through my wet shirt, and his thumbs began to rub small circles over my flesh there. "I thought that everyone was dead. That you were dead. I was in the river..." - He did not finish. Half-hidden by his dangling hair, his eyes were gleaming like he was running a dangerous malady. I felt suddenly uneasy.  
  
"You are unwell, my friend." I said, raising my hands to pry him off me. "You should go to the..." Then he gripped my arms more tightly, took a step forward amd kissed me on the mouth.  
  
3.  
  
I froze with my hands still in the air, my mind reeling. The touch of Edros's hands was cold - had always been cold, even when we were boys, I remembered belatedly. How come I had never quite noticed it before? But his chest burned like a furnace, and the damp fabric did naught to diminish the heat. His lips were set on mine, parched and dry, but he did little else: so we were standing, motionless, as the ghostly trees were dripping with mist and the Anduin flowed quietly by.  
  
Gathering my wits at length, I grasped Edros's arms and shoved him away. He kept his footing effortlessly on the uneven ground, as he did so many times before, jumping off the roof of a stable or finding the only sure place to step on amidst the chaos of a battle. The look on his face was not unlike one of a man who is expecting a defeating blow.  
  
"Go to the camp." I said with an effort. Something was welling up in me, cold and bitter like stale beer, something that I was too astounded to identify and too weary to fight off. I turned towards the path that I had come from, to lead the way.  
  
"Boromir. Please, wait."  
  
"Do not call me thus!" But I held my step and in a heartbeat Edros was in front of me, the same feverish glint in his eye.  
  
"Prey listen, Captain," he said, stumbling a little around the title, "I thought that you perished. I was in the river, alone, and my only thought was that you were dead. Whether I would have reached the the west side, whether the foe was at my heels... all of that was of no concern to me altogether. All of my men were feeding either crows or fish yet that was of no concern either. Oh by the White Tower!" He slammed his fist on his thigh, as if angered at my incomprehension. "When I reached the sand-bank... I think I passed out for a short while. I lay on the firm ground, but my mind was all but underwater still. There was no light, no air... and no hope, for you were dead. No hope for any of us."  
  
I shook my head, not able to avert my gaze from Edros's face. "You are delirious."  
  
"Nay, I am not. You are alive. 'Tis glorious... 'tis a miracle. Let me see... let me be sure that it is true."  
  
He was a trifle shorter then me, not much, but enough for him to tilt his head up slightly, when I stepped forth and seized his shoulders in my grip. "Edros. What do you want?"  
  
My second's eyes widened a fraction, but he did not waver. "I want to love you, Captain." He raised his hand to brush damp skeins of hair from my brow. His fingers were still cool. "Do not be repelled. I want to show you that you are indeed alive."  
  
The last shard of my control crumbled then under the combined forces of fury and exhaustion. "Very well then," I said, not believing my own voice. "If that is your desire."  
  
I kissed Edros hard, digging my fingers into the muscle of his shoulders, feeling dark stubble on his cheeks chafing my skin, wishing naught more than to be rid of this sickly flavour, to pour it into him, if need be. His hands were running up and down my spine, as measured as in an attempt to placate an animal that has gone wild, and just as futile. Blood was roaring in my ears, desire stirred.  
  
"Is this what you want, friend?" I said, withdrawing a fingerbreadth from his lips. He looked at me for a moment and pushed his hips sharply against mine. I bit back a gasp.  
  
"Yes, Captain. Yes." The words stabbed in the very middle of my being, like a fishing hook under my ribs, pulling the dark yearning from within. My loins responded to them even before my tongue could.  
  
"I see now you do not jest."  
  
Suddenly he hooked his heel around my calf and yanked. My feet skidded out from under me on the mist-dampened grass and we crashed down together with Edros on top of me and the back of my head hitting something solid, like we had done in so many of our childish tussles. The memory was so vivid, that despite being somewhat disoriented from the pain, I felt my anger building up to a new height. Edros was braced over me on one knee, dropping light frequent kisses on my mouth, my eyelids, my brow. His breath was on my face, hot and humid. Sweat exuded all over my body, stinging my skin in spite of the pre-morning chill.  
  
"I don't. I want to have you and to be yours."  
  
Edros's free hand skimmed down over my ribcage, touching fleetingly, and set to unlace my trousers. It brushed against the hardened flesh there, and I let out a groan too big to swallow. How long had it been since I had lain like this, with another body in my arms? I could not even remember. Edros's mouth came onto mine once more, and a sudden, shrill shake of some reckless bird came to us from above, accompanied by a rustle of leaves and a cascade of cold droplets. Faramir would have known the name of the plucky singer and told me. Too bad he was not there.  
  
Tearing Edros's hand from the thongs, I reversed our bodies, pinning his other wrist to the ground. Darkness had began to recede already, wan light oozing from the east. His upturned face was pale and undefined; I stared square at him for a several heartbeats, 'till, at length, he closed his eyes with a sigh.  
  
I felt determined and confused all at once. The experience was so utterly strange, and not only because it was a man's embrace that welcomed me, a man's rough hand that caressed my face, helped me open up my clothes, prepared and guided me. The difference was within me, not without. As I lowered myself between Edros's thighs and sunk in, our mouths met once more and I finally recognized that horrible, acrid taste that was lingering in the back of my throat since the beginning of our encounter. It was betrayal.  
  
The body beneath me, around me was hot and demanding, the head lolled to one side, the neck strained. Iron fingers were squeezing my shoulders, legs hooked at the back of my knees, holding me down, trapping me. And as I was nearing that magical point, they all were still there with me: the nameless youth with his teeth bared in a grin of death, the black faceless rider on a black mount, Faramir walking away from me, limping, becoming one with the mist. I squeezed my eyelids tightly to banish the visages, speeding up my pace, and Edros tensed, arching off the dewed grass. His grip on me tightened, became painful; my hips bucked one more time and I heard a quiet, unimaginable sound that was barely getting through his clenched teeth and bitten lip.  
  
As if uncorked by this half-moan, half-wheeze, the din flooded my head, battering my eardrums from the inside: soft, desperate neigh of a dying horse, clash of the weapons, shouts and cries and pleas of agony, ugly words of the Black Tongue, squeal of the wheels, mournful groan of the stones being torn from their ancient places, splashes, click of hooves, sharp thwank of a released bowstring... The immense black figure among the enemy's ranks turned its hooded head and screamed, and there was not Edros any more, nor the silent, watery morning on this riverbank, only the tiny expanse at the foot of the collapsed bridge, plowed back and forth by the countless feet. My fingers curled in remembrance of their grip on the hilt slippery with blood, my shoulders sagged with the armour's weight and as the climax took me, my men were still falling faster around me than I could order them to flee and save their lives.  
  
Some unknown time later I felt a tentative touch on the back of my neck and rolled off of Edros on the grass. He was not looking at me, as a brief glance revealed, cleaning himself instead. Just as well. I could not conceive, in all honesty, what to say to him should he start a conversation.  
  
I was unclean myself, my garments undone, so I rose and went to the river, yanking the lacings together angrily. 'What a fine commander I am,' I thought. 'Can not control the power of Mordor, can not control even my body's cravings.' I could see the White Tower from where I stood, it's shining peak catching the first sparkle of dawn. Vapour was coming from the water, entangled in the reeds, already thinning under the Sun's touch. Long sabre-like leaves were bending beneath my boots, then I left them behind. Kneeling in the tepid water, I threw handfuls of it on my chest and abdomen covered with Edros's seed. A sudden urge came upon me, to simply lie down and watch the brightening sky, and let the Anduin take me, sweep me to her unreachable home. I washed it away with the last bout of water and headed back.  
  
Edros was waiting for me, staring resolutely in the direction he had come from. At my approach, he pushed himself off of the tree-trunk that he had been leaning on.  
  
"I presume I must ask to be transferred." He still was not looking at me.  
  
"Let us go to the camp."  
  
"I committed a disgrace..."  
  
"Shut your mouth, Edros." I said heavily. The commanding tone had not quite escaped me yet. "Be quiet and do what you are told."  
  
Without another word he turned and trudged upstream, his head bent, exactly like Faramir had done what could not have been just a scarce hours ago. I watched, and the hollow place inside me that appeared when I emptied myself inside him, was slowly filling with guilt.  
  
'Well, what should I do? Apologize to him - for what, exactly? He got what he desired, did he not?' I pressed the heels of my palms to my eye sockets. I was so completely, unbelivably tired. The morn was peeking on us, grey and transparent. I had not closed my eyes in two days straight. Should I have asked Edros's forgiveness or threw him out to some all-forsaken garrison in Morthond, there was another day for it. Another day that, unlike so many of our comrades, he and I had. For now, all I wished was to sleep and not to dream of anything but the mist.  
  
THE END  
  
()I borrowed this curse from Gil Shalos's brilliant "Not From Mountain, Nor From Sea". No, I didn't ask for permission. I hope nobody'll get offended. 


End file.
